


And He Waits

by LittleLostStar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Blow Jobs, Bottom Katsuki Yuuri, Cliffhangers, Guns, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Smut, Top Victor Nikiforov, be as prepared as you can, guys I don't know how to say this but there's a goddamn hell of an ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 22:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11427660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar
Summary: Porn with assassins? It's porn with assassins.~“Is that gun even loaded, Yuuri?” The only response is a sharp yank of the wrist, but Victor’s grip is tight, and he pulls Yuuri’s hand to his lips, kissing the clenched fingers. “So unlike you, to be unprepared. Are you losing your touch?”Yuuri twists his arm at the elbow, forcing Victor to release him, and before Victor can register what’s happened Yuuri has darted even closer and slammed both his wrists against the bookshelves, pinning them at the same level as his head. Victor feels the scotch splash over onto his hand, but he keeps hold of the glass as Yuuri leans in and growls: “Victor—”God, yes,that growl. Victor bites his bottom lip. “Yuuri.”They’re forehead to forehead, chest to chest, groin to groin. “I could kill you with my bare hands,” Yuuri spits.This time, Victor leans forward and bitesYuuri’slip. “Yes, you’reverygood with your hands,” he breathes against Yuuri’s mouth.





	And He Waits

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Wants Me Dead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8964493) by [RunawayWhispers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunawayWhispers/pseuds/RunawayWhispers). 



> Alright, so. This PWP began as my playground to get comfortable with the idea of writing smut for Setting Sun, and then it sat unfinished (though fully planned out) in my folder for many months, until today. I've had an atrociously awful week, and I wanted to be able to write and post something, and here we are. I'm really happy I've finished this, and I hope you enjoy it. If you do, or want to scream, the kudos and comments would be very much appreciated. <3 
> 
> I am [iwritevictuuri](http://iwritevictuuri.tumblr.com) on Tumblr, so please come say hi if you wish.
> 
> And no, I don't know why I can't just write a nice porno to warm your heart.

Victor knows as soon as he enters his apartment. He doesn’t even have to turn on the light.

There’s a difference to the darkness, something fundamentally wrong, something unusual in a way that’s only perceptible when your home has been yours for months or years. Nonetheless, he shrugs off his coat and hangs it up carefully; his shoes are removed with equal care, and upon placing them perfectly in line with his boots Victor straightens and stands, motionless, for a brief moment. He waits.

_Okay._

Victor’s steps are soft, the carpet springy under his socks. He walks into the middle of the living room and pauses, unsure of whether to turn on a light; but almost as soon as he considers it, a flash of lightning casts a sharp, crisp sash of brightness across his easy chair, illuminating the shape of a sitting human for a fraction of a second. A smile plays across Victor’s lips.

“Hello, Yuuri.”

Another crack of lightning, this time illuminating two infuriatingly beautiful dark brown eyes and the glint of a silver gun barrel in the right hand.

“Victor,” Yuuri rasps in return, his voice hoarse. From tears or misuse, Victor can’t say.

In the darkness, with no clear line of sight, they consider each other. Then Victor’s eyes begin to adjust to the gloom, and now he can see Yuuri’s outline in the chair without the aid of the weather. He turns away and strolls casually to the antique bar near his bookcase. “Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you,” comes the reply. 

_As polite as ever,_ Victor notes, and he can’t help but chuckle silently as he pours two glasses of scotch. 

“I insist,” he says, relishing the feeling of the words in his mouth, the way they sound, and the person he’s speaking to. Victor walks over to the easy chair and stops when he feels metal poke at his ribs. He holds out one of the drinks, and Yuuri’s cool fingers brush past his wrist to take the glass. Victor toasts the air; they both take a sip. 

“It’s the MacCallan,” Yuuri notes after a moment. The gun moves away; Victor exhales as quietly as he can, and finds he’s smiling again. 

“It is,” he confirms. 

“1968?”

“The ‘49, actually.”

Yuuri grunts low in his throat, and Victor can tell he’s smiling. “Special occasion?”

“Always,” he murmurs. “May I sit?”

“It’s your house.” 

Yuuri,  _Yuuri_ , so exquisitely formal, so effortlessly poised. A gentleman cloaked in a monster’s mask. His tone is so achingly familiar that it makes Victor’s mouth water; nonetheless, he keeps his cool and strolls over to the opposite armchair, sinking deep into the cushions. He takes another sip of scotch and watches the gun glimmer in the lights of a passing car. 

The bubble of silence between them inflates, stretches, hits the walls and keeps going well past the point when it should pop, but Victor keeps his mouth shut. He idly thumbs the rim of his glass, and he waits.

Finally: “You replaced the carpet.”

“It was getting ratty,” Victor replies, voice echoing off his glass as he raises it to his lips. “But you’re not here to comment on the interior design.”

He hears movement: a shift forward. “No,” Yuuri says, his tone heart-shatteringly apologetic. “I’m not.”

Victor sighs, one long smooth exhalation of unwavering sound. “Here to kill me, then,” he says, unable to keep the smirk from creeping into his voice. “Finally.”

“Yes.” Almost inaudible.

Victor drums his fingers on the arm of his chair:  _thump-thump-thump-thump._ “Well, I assume you’re accurate from—what is this, five feet? I can move closer if you’d like.” When he doesn’t receive a response, he downs the last of his scotch, lips curling up in a sneer. “Do you want another drink for your nerves, or does alcohol make you miss?”

“Shut up.” Yuuri’s voice is halfway between a demand and a plea. 

Victor leans forward, and now he can finally see Yuuri’s entire face. They make eye contact, and Victor is hit with the onslaught of emotions Yuuri is feeling right now—hate, anger, anxiety, sadness, desire. Victor wonders if Yuuri knows that his eyes will always betray him; they say everything without him speaking a word. 

He holds Yuuri’s gaze for just a second more, and then shrugs and stands up. “Well,  _I’m_ getting more scotch,” he says amiably, letting his fingers trail along the side and back of the chair as he strolls away. He takes his time at the bar; he’s not  _stalling_ , per se, but he’s in no hurry.

And then he feels the gun at his back.

Victor slowly, gracefully straightens his spine, head held high. He raises his hands, one empty and one holding the glass. “Can I turn around, at least?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Oh, Yuuri,” Victor tries to keep the desire out of his voice but he just ends up sounding condescending instead. “You’re too honourable to shoot me in the back.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and pivots gently on the balls of his feet. The gun barrel scrapes along his side, notching into the space between two ribs as he turns, and when it hits Victor’s sternum he comes to a stop.

And he waits.

Yuuri looks down at the gun, and then back up to meet Victor’s eyes, and he takes a step forward. Victor takes a step back. Yuuri takes another step; Victor retreats. Again. And again.

Now Victor is standing flat against the bookcase, the shelving digging into his back. Yuuri steps forward once more, until his feet land in between Victor’s own, and he drags the gun in a straight line up Victor’s chest—past the heart, between the collarbones, across the Adam’s Apple to the point of his chin. Victor closes his eyes and tilts his head back as the barrel slides gently up the line of his jaw; he thinks of animals exposing their throats to a predator they know they can’t evade.  _Here I am. Make it quick. Be merciful, and I’m all yours._

But his left arm is moving, fingers skittering lightly up the bookshelf in the darkness, before striking out to grab Yuuri’s wrist, hard enough to make the bones grind together. Yuuri’s hand snaps open; the gun slides away from Victor’s jugular, and he hears the gentle thump of metal hitting carpet. Then he smirks.

“Is that gun even loaded, Yuuri?” The only response is a sharp yank of the wrist, but Victor’s grip is tight, and he pulls Yuuri’s hand to his lips, kissing the clenched fingers. “So unlike you, to be unprepared. Are you losing your touch?”

Yuuri twists his arm at the elbow, forcing Victor to release him, and before Victor can register what’s happened Yuuri has darted even closer and slammed both his wrists against the bookshelves, pinning them at the same level as his head. Victor feels the scotch splash over onto his hand, but he keeps hold of the glass as Yuuri leans in and growls: “Victor—”

_God, yes,_ that growl. Victor bites his bottom lip. “Yuuri.” 

They’re forehead to forehead, chest to chest, groin to groin. “I could kill you with my bare hands,” Yuuri spits.

This time, Victor leans forward and bites  _Yuuri’s_ lip. “Yes, you’re  _very_ good with your hands,” he breathes against Yuuri’s mouth, and in response he feels hands tighten at his wrists and hears a sharp intake of breath—and then Yuuri lets go, and takes half a step away. Without ever breaking eye contact, he plucks the glass from Victor’s hand, downing the scotch in one go, and then leans in close and reaches past Victor’s ear to place it gently on the shelf with a  _clink_ .

“I have coasters,” Victor offers, rubbing one wrist. “They’re—mmf!” he’s cut off as Yuuri grabs him and pulls him into a violent kiss, mouths crashing together, teeth meeting with a click. Victor wraps his arms around Yuuri’s waist; he darts his tongue in to lick the space between Yuuri’s top teeth and lip, and is rewarded with an involuntary moan— _ha. I win_. Then he pulls away and ducks his head to scrape his teeth against Yuuri’s jaw, pressing a little harder than he normally would and enjoying how Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat. When he reaches Yuuri’s ear, he nips at the lobe and whispers: “Now that’s better.”

“I hate you,” Yuuri pants, fumbling at the buttons of Victor’s shirt. Victor returns the favour by lifting the hem of Yuuri’s sweater, fingers skimming ever so gently across pale, smooth skin, until Yuuri groans impatiently and pulls the sweater off himself, throwing it aside into the shadows. On cue, lightning flashes through the room , and a clap of thunder shakes the nearby windows. Yuuri’s eyes narrow.

“What are you looking at?” he demands between shuddering breaths. Victor reaches out and gently cups his cheek.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Shut up,” Yuuri whispers, but his hands have gone back to the buttons of Victor’s shirt, with increasing clumsiness.

“Make me.”

Another passing car casts Yuuri’s features into relief, illuminating his straight white teeth, bared in a smile or a snarl, as he rips Victor’s shirt open the rest of the way. A button hits the bookcase with a tiny click.

 _Damn it, Yuuri, that shirt was a hundred and fifteen dollars_ —and then Victor proceeds to forget the very concept of numbers, because Yuuri has unbuttoned his pants and reached in to grab his cock.

“Yuuri,” he moans. “Yuuri—”

The hand withdraws. “What?” there’s a spark of demented delight in Yuuri’s tone. Victor opens his eyes and leans forward for a kiss, but Yuuri pulls back: “Say please.”

“Please.”

Yuuri grunts, amused. “You’re so easy,” he murmurs, which makes Victor laugh.

“Do you really think I’d pretend to have a sense of pride around you, Yuuri?”

“I’d expect at least an attempt.”

A joke! Victor wraps his arms around Yuuri’s neck and kisses him once, twice, three times. “Can’t,” he breathes in between kisses. “Won’t. Don’t want to. Whatever.” He pulls back, grinning. “Does that ruin the mood?” he asks, fingers now dancing down past Yuuri’s belt loops.

He half expects Yuuri to bat his hands away, but no such interruption occurs, so Victor moves his fingers to the front of Yuuri’s pants—an unfamiliar pair, obviously new. He looks down in order to figure out exactly where the zipper pull is—and that’s when he feels a palm on the top of his head, pushing him down. Yuuri—spry, toned Yuuri—has a surprising amount of strength in just his forearm, and Victor suddenly finds himself on his knees.

_Oh._

Victor’s eyes flick upwards, searching for Yuuri in the darkness, and he swears he can see a wicked grin spread across Yuuri’s face.

“Will you say please now?” He’s definitely smiling, but trying to hide it.

Victor deftly unzips Yuuri’s pants, letting them fall to the floor and watching as Yuuri steps out of them, leaving just boxers. “Shouldn’t you be the one saying pl—” he’s cut off when Yuuri grabs his hair again and tugs, _just_ hard enough that the spark of sensation ripples through his whole body and reads as pleasure. Victor groans, and Yuuri’s hand leaves his scalp and traces gently down his temple, along his jaw, and across his mouth.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, the name rolling off his tongue like it’s something delicious. His index finger slips gently between Victor’s lips; Victor looks back up, makes direct eye contact, and licks the digit as luxuriously as he can. He manages not to smile as he feels Yuuri’s hand tremble.

“Yuuri,” he coos, reaching into Yuuri’s boxers to find him already hard. Victor’s in the same boat, but the sight and the realization nonetheless sends a wave of teenage-level arousal rippling down his spine. He turns his full attention to Yuuri’s cock, heavy in his hand, and gently licks away a bead of pre-come before sucking gently at the head. He hears Yuuri’s sharp intake of breath.

Now Victor closes his eyes, gripping the base of Yuuri’s cock and taking the rest into his mouth, tongue exploring the underside of the shaft as he bobs back and forth. Yuuri’s hips begin to roll, his hand gripping the back of Victor’s head, fingers tangling themselves in his hair. Slowly, gradually, Victor’s lips come into contact with each of the fingers holding Yuuri’s cock, and he peels them away one by one until he feels the tip hit the back of his throat.

Yuuri gasps, hips moving faster now, fucking his mouth; Victor relaxes into it, relishing the taste of him, the trembles that are becoming more and more pronounced with each passing moment. At some point—it could be years later as far as Victor’s concerned—Yuuri’s cock hits the top of his throat at a bad angle and he chokes a little, pushing himself back somewhat reluctantly in order to take a few full breaths as Yuuri tucks himself away.

A glint of metal catches Victor’s eye.

His arm moves through the darkness quicker than his mind can follow; he straightens up so quickly that black spots explode across his vision, but his hand remains steady.

And now the gun is pointed directly at Yuuri’s chest.

Yuuri, to his credit, does not flinch. He doesn’t even tense up. He just makes direct, explicit eye contact, assuming what he probably thinks is a look of calm indifference.

“Victor.”

“Yuuri.” Victor’s finger trembles as he thinks of how easy it would be, a quick squeeze of the trigger to solve so many problems in one fraction of a second. Instead, he waits.

“There isn’t a bounty on my head,” Yuuri says. Victor laughs with a huff.

“Who says there has to be?” he replies, taking a step forward. Yuuri takes a step back.

“Oh, yes,” Yuuri hisses. “The Russians lack finesse, I always forget.”

“We’re improvisers,” he retorts. Another step.

“Yes, gun retrieval via blowjob is probably not covered in the Bratva training manual.”

Victor smirks. “ That’s more just my flair for the dramatic.”

Yuuri reaches forward and grasps the gun by the barrel, so boldly that Victor almost drops it.  _The gun is_ definitely _unloaded. No one’s that insane._

It wouldn’t be the first time one of them has threatened the other with an unloaded gun, nor would it be the first time that those threats turned physical in the very best way.

Yuuri growls. “I’ll show you drama—” 

Victor isn’t sure if Yuuri wrenches the gun from his grasp or if he lets it slip from his fingers, but either way it’s now gone. He waits for the barrel to connect with his ribs again, but it never happens; instead, Yuuri grabs Victor with both hands, spinning him around, hooking a leg around Victor’s knee, sinking them both to the carpet in a controlled move that is half shove and half embrace. Victor lets himself be guided onto his back, relishing Yuuri’s weight above him, the tension and beautiful solidity of all the parts where their bodies touch. Yuuri straddles his waist, sitting upright, and Victor marvels at the way Yuuri’s knees just _fit_ into the grooves of his hipbones.

And he waits.

“Missed you,” he finds himself mumbling. Yuuri cocks one ear towards Victor, as if he didn’t hear, but it’s obvious that he did because he leans down, spine curving like a cat’s, to hover directly above Victor’s face—infuriatingly just out of reach.

“What was that?” Yuuri asks, his voice silky and sweet and tender and _dangerous_ , and while everything about the guy is arousing, it’s this last element in particular which is making Victor ridiculously hard.

He gazes upward, trying to memorize the contours of Yuuri’s face. “Nothing,” he answers coyly, running his hands up the thighs that trap him.

“You said you missed me,” Yuuri accuses.

“Did you know you only tease me when you’re turned on?” Victor murmurs, sliding the fingers of one hand under the leg of Yuuri’s boxers. _Closer, closer, closer still…_

“Don’t change the subject.”

Victor’s fingertips brush against Yuuri’s inner thigh, though the ultimate goal is still out of reach. “I missed you,” he repeats. Then: “You’ve missed me.”

Yuuri looks like he wants to protest, but instead he grabs Victor’s hair again and pulls, swooping down to bite his neck at the same spot where the gun stopped its terrifying journey. Victor hisses in a combination of pleasure and pain as Yuuri sucks as hard as possible without drawing blood; Victor’s hips have started grinding of their own accord, desperate and wild. Yuuri finally lets go and kisses him on the lips, as gently as a teenager on a first date.

“I’ll say please again,” Victor pants, in between breathy kisses to the sides of Yuuri’s mouth. “I’ll say it as many times as you want.”

Yuuri smirks as—oh, god, _yes_ —he begins licking and nipping his way down Victor’s chest, agonizingly slow. “You’re no fun when you don’t fight back,” he tuts.

“You don’t—hnng—m-make a very good argument for it,” Victor gasps as Yuuri’s tongue circles around his nipple.

“I could stop.”

But he doesn’t. In fact, Yuuri begins to move faster, and his fingers hook into the waistband of Victor’s pants and boxers, the universal sign for _help me get rid of these, you oaf_. Victor raises his hips, all too happy to comply. Yuuri continues his journey, licking down the line of Victor’s hipbone until he’s face to face with the _very_ erect result of his efforts. Victor feels Yuuri’s lips glide up the side of his cock to suck briefly at the tip before slipping away, and he has to hold his breath, fingers grabbing desperately at the fibres of the rug, desperate for purchase and finding none.

Victor has squeezed his eyes shut, but when he doesn’t feel anything for a few seconds he opens them just in time to see Yuuri make direct eye contact and lick the very tip of his cock, so gently and slowly that Victor is _not_ responsible for the noises he makes. Yuuri continues patiently; almost sucking, almost licking, almost bobbing— _almost_ —until Victor can feel rivulets of sweat running down his chest. He’s shaking from tension, and just when he starts to worry that he’ll burn out Yuuri swallows him whole with absolutely no warning.

Victor Nikiforov has always prided himself on being an eloquent man. There is one person who makes him tongue-tied at best; now, with that person sucking his cock with expert precision and tracing a finger against his ass, Victor is rapidly losing every damn part of his mind. Because Yuuri’s _evil,_ he’s so evil, he’s the Devil incarnate, and Victor would gladly follow him to Hell if he promised to _keep doing that ohmygod—_

“Yuuri,” he keens, because in this moment the entirety of his twenty-eight years of knowledge and experience has completely disappeared from his brain except for that one word. Yuuri’s only response is to hum, lips reverberating against impossibly sensitive skin, and then let Victor’s cock slide towards the back of his throat. 

“I’m gonna—”

Magic words. Yuuri sucks in his cheeks and releases Victor with an obscene popping sound, and Victor takes a long breath and exhales in shudders, covering his face with his hands as if in prayer. He feels weight on his chest and peeks through his fingers to see Yuuri’s eyes glittering and the hint of a smile, possibly just a trick of the shadows. Yuuri shed his own boxers at some point while Victor was otherwise occupied, and now they lie, matched, limb on limb. Naked; exposed; vulnerable. Victor takes another breath, feeling Yuuri’s heart beat against his own, and he can’t help but think that  _this almost feels like things used to be._

Not that they’ve ever had a  _used to be_ , per se.

But he can’t help it. As Yuuri reaches down to take both of their cocks in hand Victor closes his eyes and takes just a second to bask in the glorious fantasy where the context for Yuuri’s visit is out of love or commitment or even just friendship with benefits. 

“Fuck me,” the words slip from him almost unbidden.

“Say—”

“— _oh shut up with please already,_ ” Victor hisses, pulling Yuuri’s face towards his in another crushing kiss, closing his eyes tight, chasing that impossible _what-if_ of a happily ever after. 

“Bedroom?” Yuuri pants against his lips.

Victor shakes his head. “I have supplies in the bar—give me a second.”

Yuuri shakes his head, lays his palm flat over Victor’s heart, and pushes, just a little, just enough to wordlessly tell Victor to stay put _._ Then he rises and disappears into the dark, leaving Victor alone. 

And he waits—for about fifteen seconds. 

_Now._

Victor snaps into action and moves with silent, lethal speed, rolling to a crouch and then crossing the room in just a few steps, even as he is still rising to his feet. No hesitation, no pause for thought, just a straight line to the bar, where Yuuri stands with his back to him, and Victor has the distinct pleasure of feeling Yuuri jolt with surprise as he wraps his forearm around his windpipe. Victor stands close,  _so_ close, and can’t stop himself from grinding his hips against Yuuri’s magnificent bare ass. 

“Choke hold?” Yuuri croaks out, to which Victor gives his arm a tiny squeeze and release. “Really, Victor?” But he’s shaken, thrown off his feet, a waver in his voice that wasn’t there before, and this glimmer of vulnerability makes Victor painfully hard. He rolls his hips in tiny, slow movements, and Yuuri grinds back in a matching rhythm. 

“Change of plan,” Victor growls into Yuuri’s ear. He looks over Yuuri’s shoulder to see a small pump-top bottle of lube and some condoms sitting on top of the bar, along with another rocks glass—Yuuri was making himself a drink, it seems. Or preparing to smash the glass into Victor’s head. 

_Can’t have that._ Victor reaches around to grab the glass; he downs the scotch in one gulp and then drops the glass gently by his side, kicking it so it rolls into the shadows and out of Yuuri’s reach. Then he grabs the lube and a condom, taking the opportunity to press his body even closer, rubbing his cock against the cleft of Yuuri’s ass. “I could fuck you right here,” he pants, biting back a grin when Yuuri responds with a moan. “Bent over and begging for me. Would you like that?”

Victor doesn’t wait for an answer, instead loosening his grip around Yuuri’s throat and yanking his hips backward, bending him over the bar, giving a sharp shove between Yuuri’s shoulder blades and an order: “don’t move.” He drops to his knees and lets his hands roam over Yuuri’s flesh, spreading his cheeks apart and licking a stripe up from his perineum to his hole, earning a gasp. Victor licks again, more luxuriously this time, applying insistent pressure and flicking the tip of his tongue a fraction of an inch inside, and he feels Yuuri’s thighs shake. 

Victor works him open, one finger soon joining his tongue, followed by another. He is deliberate and relentless, unhurried and focused, responding to every gasp and moan with more stimulation, until Yuuri is trembling all over and his knees finally give out. He sinks to the ground, forehead pressed to the polished wood of the bar, breathing in gasps; Victor sits back with a satisfied smirk, and he waits. 

It doesn’t take long before it comes: “Victor...” Yuuri whimpers his name as a plea, completely devoid of the calm collected tone that is typical of the most dangerous types of men. 

Victor takes the opportunity to put on the condom, unrolling it with practised ease, and then he opens his arms. “I’m here,” he whispers, and Yuuri leans back, relaxing into Victor’s embrace, like putty in his hands. Victor grazes his lips against the back of Yuuri’s neck, and Yuuri groans softly, letting his head drop to rest back against Victor’s shoulder, turning slightly to kiss him. 

“Worn out already?” Victor smirks, reaching down to stroke Yuuri’s cock, pleased to find that just the barest touch makes him jump. “You should turn around.”

Yuuri obeys, twisting around to straddle Victor’s lap, grinding down on his cock. Lightning flashes through the room again, followed almost instantly by the  _crack-boom_ of thunder, and for a moment Victor can see the blush spreading across Yuuri’s beautiful chest. He wraps his arms around Yuuri and pulls him close, trailing kisses along Yuuri’s collarbone, feeling each sharp draw of breath. 

“Do you remember the first time?” he murmurs into Yuuri’s skin, almost to himself. Yuuri tilts Victor’s chin up, and he can see those eyes so clearly it’s almost possible to forget it’s dark. 

“What about it?” Yuuri whispers back, lips so close that Victor feels the words skim across his mouth. Victor grins wolfishly and reaches a hand down to Yuuri’s hole, letting his fingers play across the surface, his cock jolting whenever a fingertip slips inside and makes Yuuri gasp. 

“It was raining then, too,” he answers, softly, smoothly, sweetly.

Yuuri’s head is tilted back, his neck taut and bare. “Lube,” he moans. “ _Please_ , Victor.”

“Of course.” Victor reaches for the bottle and slicks himself up, taking the opportunity to stroke Yuuri’s cock just a little bit with the leftover on his fingers. 

Yuuri reaches back and lines himself up, and Victor waits for countless agonizing seconds until Yuuri sinks himself down, inch by inch, until he’s bottomed out, quivering all over, and the air is driven from Victor’s lungs as he’s bowled over by the heat, the tightness, the clench of muscles.

Yuuri wraps his arms around Victor’s neck and Victor buries his head into Yuuri’s shoulder.

“The second time,” he gasps out, “Tokyo in the summer. So hot I wanted to _die_.”

Yuuri’s fingernails dig into Victor’s back as he starts to rock his hips, and Victor’s hands grip Yuuri’s hips hard enough to leave bruises. Yuuri pulls back a little to look at Victor, emotions clashing with every glitter of his pupils in the dark, breath escaping in short little bursts as Victor thrusts upward into him, and Victor’s panting joins in the rhythm and he’s not sure which one of them smiles first but it feels so close to something like adoration that it nearly rips him apart. 

Victor wraps an arm around Yuuri’s back and flips them both over, thrusting as hard as he possibly can. Yuuri cries out, his heels digging into the small of Victor’s back, and he looks like he might come apart at the seams and melt into the carpet. Victor leans down to nip at the line of his jaw. 

“Milan. Paris. Chicago. Montreal,” he whispers with each thrust, reaching down to grip Yuuri’s cock. 

“Victor,” Yuuri whimpers, back arching off the carpet. It’s always been this way and it’s _never_ been this way, this dance of theirs, danger and desire twirling around each other in endless circles, the details of which of them ran and which of them chased long since forgotten. 

“You fucking tease me every time, and I can’t stand it,” Victor growls. “I want to make you come so hard you’ll forget who you fucking _are_.” His arousal is building fast, the swell before the crest.

“Victor, I—oh, _fuck,_ Victor, I’m—” Yuuri’s gasps become a high-pitched cry as he comes, hands desperately scrambling through Victor’s hair, leaving stinging scratch marks down his back, his muscles clenching _so_ tight around Victor’s cock—

“ _Yuuri_ ,” Victor moans as the orgasm hits him, sending electricity through his limbs. Yuuri surges up to push their lips together as the feeling fades, and Victor pulls out of him and flops over onto his back. They lie side by side, shining with sweat, catching their breath, and eventually Victor turns on his side, and he feels Yuuri’s chest against his back, and the nuzzle of Yuuri’s chin on his shoulder. 

They both see the glint of metal at the same time, and in the sudden scramble the darkness seems thick and heavy.

“I— _no, fuck—_ ”

“—you don’t have to—god—”

Victor stills, forcing himself to look into Yuuri’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he rasps, his voice failing him. “I didn’t know this would be our—our last—”

“—yes you did,” Yuuri whispers, as a tear leaves a shiny silver track down his cheek. “Every time has been our last, Victor. _Every_ time.”

Somewhere in the distance, a siren wails.

“I loved you, you know,” Yuuri says in a tiny near-voiceless whimper, something between a sob and a snarl. 

He inhales sharply. “I know.”

“Victor—”

“Yuuri—” 

As the gun cocks, Victor closes his eyes.

And he waits.


End file.
